


More than Skin Deep

by fortune_cookie



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 21:08:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5306807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fortune_cookie/pseuds/fortune_cookie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian doesn't take aging well, but the Inquisitor is there to reassure him.</p><p>Inspired by a kinkmeme prompt, but there's not really any kink in this version. I might have to follow up with a smutty chapter if anyone enjoys this. Props if you get the Howl's Moving Castle reference!</p>
            </blockquote>





	More than Skin Deep

Dorian frowned at his reflection in the mirror above his wash basin. He pressed a little closer, the edge of the porcelain tub digging into his stomach. After a moment of effort, he schooled his features into a neutral expression.

“No. Absolutely not,” he muttered to himself. He poked at his face with one manicured finger — brushing the edges of his lips, under his eyes, his forehead.  With each subsequent brush of his fingers, something hot and caustic grew in the pit of his stomach. He started to feel sick, his skin burning hot.

How had it taken him so long to realize what was happening? He had missed the signs. Maybe it was all those months spent scouring the Western Approach with Inquisitor Lavellan. Cyrus. He was always correcting people who didn’t want to call him by his first name. Dorian found it terribly charming despite himself.

Perhaps that was it. He had been distracted. They were so busy hunting down red Templars and narrowly avoiding death, Dorian had simply been too preoccupied to pay as much attention to his appearance as usual. Not to mention the utter lack of full-sized mirrors on the expedition. It was hard enough to properly line his eyes with kohl in the little compact mirror he carried. He couldn’t imagine doing much else with it.

He gave the corner of one eye a half-hearted poke, trying in vain to smooth the skin there. Crow’s feet. He had crow’s feet. That wasn’t the only thing, either. Fine lines edged his mouth, his forehead. It seemed the stress of these past months was finally catching up to him.

He groaned, letting his hand drop to his side.

“Well.” He tugged at the sash of his satin robe, tightening it around his waist. His reflection revealed a look of grim determination. “Only one thing to do now.”

No one could see him like this. Lavellan couldn’t see him like this. What would they think? That he was losing his touch, that’s what. The Inquisitor would realize what a burden it was to be with Dorian, and he’d finally gather his wits and leave the Altus mage. Perhaps he would make the acquaintance of some young, pretty thing and run off with them — leaving Dorian to languish in his twilight years.

Dorian nodded absentmindedly as he made his way toward the bed. Yes, that’s exactly what would happen if the Inquisitor saw him like this now. And so, it was paramount that he did not see Dorian in this state. Not until he had taken care of this little… problem.

He pulled back the covers on his bed and crawled under them. Pressing his face into the pillow, he tried not to groan. He would simply have to wait until nightfall and sneak out of Skyhold before anyone noticed something was wrong. A note left in his stead would explain that he had been called away by urgent business to Orlais and would return soon. It would have to do.

There were doctors and mages in Val Royeaux that could do wonders for this sort of thing. Although most nobles wore masks, they still liked to be beautiful. Dorian knew a few people who could help erase this little problem, at least temporarily. It would have to be enough, he figured. He just couldn’t risk losing Cyrus to someone else over this.

He tugged the covers over his head. His skin was still burning hot, and the cool sheets were a momentary comfort. He laid there for a while, eventually drifting to sleep when his heart had stopped pounding in his ears.

There was no way to tell how much time had passed when he awoke to the sound of someone knocking on the door.

Sleep clung to Dorian like a heavy shroud, making everything fuzzy. He turned over to face the door and pulled the blankets up to his chin.

“Go away!” he groaned. “I’m not well.”

The knock came again. It was more insistent this time. A familiar voice warbled through the heavy oak.

“Dorian? Are you alright?”

It was Cyrus. He sounded concerned. Dorian tried not to get his hopes up.

Now that his eyes were adjusted, he could see the room around him. It was dim, and he could just catch a glimpse of the sun as it set. The sky was lit a pale pink, covering Skyhold in dusk. They’d already lit the lanterns. Maker, he’d slept the whole day away.

“Go away,” he repeated. His voice sounded strained to his own ears, rough with sleep and stress.

He heard a small sound. The Inquisitor was trying to open the door. Dorian felt comforted for a moment. He knew he had locked it before going to sleep, at least.

The relief was short-lived, however. After a few moments, he heard a sharp click. Cyrus had picked the lock in short order, the scoundrel.

The knob turned and Cyrus pushed his way into the room. He barely made a noise as he padded across the soft carpet Dorian had insisted be installed. He reached the side of the bed and frowned, something like concern on his face. Dorian tried not to feel bad. He hadn’t intended to worry the Inquisitor. He hadn’t even thought he would be missed for a few days.

The Altus mage quickly pulled his blanket up to cover his nose and mouth in attempt to hide his face. Cyrus reached down to press a cool hand against Dorian’s forehead. The gesture was kind. Too kind for Dorian. He let his eyes drift shut for a moment, reveling in the sensation.

“Are you alright? I was worried when you missed three meals in a row.” The elf had moved his hand, and was rubbing a thumb over Dorian’s cheek.

Dorian did his best to sound nonchalant.

“Yes, well. You know I do have to keep my girlish figure.”

Cyrus snickered at that. He brushed the hair back from Dorian’s face and shook his head.

“Oh, I’d say your figure is anything but girlish.” His voice went rough with lust for a moment before he checked himself. The elf cleared his throat, smiling sheepishly. He kept a hand on Dorian’s forehead as he edged the man over so he could sit on the bed next to him.

“What’s wrong? You’re not running much of a fever. Are you sick?”

Dorian sucked in a great breath and sighed, shaking his head.

“I…” He paused, tugging down the blanket slightly to give Lavellan a very serious look.

“You must promise me you won’t laugh.”

Cyrus nodded. “You have my word.”

Dorian pressed his lips together. He took a moment to look at Cyrus and assess the truthfulness of that promise before continuing.

“Cyrus… Amatus.” The elf was gazing down at him intently; his hand still stroking Dorian’s hair. It made it difficult to continue, but Dorian forged ahead.

“What happens when I grow old and grey, and you’re still young and beautiful?”

The elf chuckled at that.

“So you think I’m beautiful?” He leaned down, turning to kneel astride Dorian’s knees so he could get a better look at the man. He tilted his chin, humming thoughtfully.

“You’re hardly an old man, Dorian. You’re only eight years older than I am.” His hands brushed down the mage’s sides. The gesture was almost reverent.

“Is this why you’ve been hiding in your room? Dorian, you’re perfect. I don’t care if you grow old, and you’d probably look terribly handsome with silver hair.” Cyrus smiled, leaning forward. His chest pressed against his lover’s as he placed a kiss on his lips. When he pulled back, he could see Dorian’s cheeks were wet with tears.

“I’m sorry! Are you alright?” The mage shook his head, then nodded.

“It’s ridiculous, I know it’s ridiculous, but what’s the point in living if I can’t be beautiful?” He shook his head again.

“I’d understand if you found someone else. Someone not quite so wrinkly.”

Cyrus pulled his sleeve down and wiped the tears from Dorian’s cheeks. He leaned down again, and pressed his lips to Dorian’s forehead.

“I don’t want anyone else. I won’t want anyone else. No matter what you look like Dorian, I love you.”

Maker forbid, Dorian almost believed him.

**Author's Note:**

> This work is un-betaed, so apologies for any errors!


End file.
